


not too late

by vlieger



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay," says Paul slowly. "Okay, can we just agree that you've got your point across on the asshole thing, and go back to the-- the other thing?"</p><p>"What other thing?" says James blankly.</p><p>Paul closes his eyes and wonders how he got stuck with such a helpless fucking idiot. "The thing where you said you're in love with me," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not too late

**Author's Note:**

> massive thanks to [cathedralhearts](http://archivevofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts) for feedback and encouragement ♥

It's approaching the start of the 14/15 preseason before Paul so much as hears from James, even though he moved to Nashville months ago now, when it was still the height of summer. 

Paul's a little bit pissed, and a little bit hurt, and there's also an irrational part of him that wants James to get in touch just so Paul can personally make sure he's okay, but the rest of him is annoyingly reasonable about the whole thing. He's always had an odd inability to really get mad at James for things he wouldn't take from other people, and even if he didn't, he knows the trade was hard on James, that James probably just needs the space to get used to his new city and his new team without being reminded of what he left behind.

Paul texts him a couple of times, leaves a few voicemails, and when they go unanswered he's not so much mad as he just misses James, quietly and without much fuss.

When James does finally call, late at night not long after Paul's gotten home from a long workout session and a late dinner with some of the guys, he says without preamble, "You're an asshole."

Paul blinks. "It's really nice to hear from you too, Nealer," he says dryly.

"Shut up," says Nealer. "You're an asshole."

"I heard," says Paul. "Are you drunk?"

"Yes," says James. "But that's not the point."

"Okay," says Paul. "What is the point?"

"The point," says James, "Is that you're an asshole, Paulie, God."

Paul rubs his forehead. Fuck, he's tired. Tired and sore and he kind of misses James a lot, idiocy notwithstanding. He doesn't have the energy to deal with this...whatever this is, right now. "Mind if I ask why I'm an asshole?" he says eventually, trying to keep his tone even.

"Because," says James. "You got me all-- all _dependent_ on your stupid house and your stupid food and your stupid _face_ , and I don't-- I can't-- you made me _fall in love_ with you and _didn't tell me_ , and that's such a dick move, Paulie, you asshole."

"Um," says Paul. "You-- what?"

"Asshole," repeats James, with emphasis.

"Okay," says Paul slowly. "Okay, can we just agree that you've got your point across on the asshole thing, and go back to the-- the other thing?"

"What other thing?" says James blankly.

Paul closes his eyes and wonders how he got stuck with such a helpless fucking idiot. "The thing where you said you're in love with me," he says.

"Oh," says James. "Well, I only figured it out like, a week ago, because of how you didn't tell me."

"How was I supposed to know?" says Paul loudly, glaring at the microwave.

"Because you know everything!" says James, like that makes any sense. "And also, like, in hindsight or whatever, I think it was pretty fucking obvious."

"So obvious even you didn't know?" says Paul skeptically.

"That doesn't count, I'm a moron," says James.

"You're not wrong," agrees Paul.

"Fuck you," says James. "But I spoke to Geno and he says he knew, so you have no excuse, I was like-- I was at your house all the time, and I stared at you all the time, and I wanted to hang out with you all the time, and now I can't go to your house or stare at you or hang with you, and it fucking sucks, and you should've said something."

"I didn't _know_ ," Paul grits out. He kind of wants to punch something. "How was I supposed to-- you never had food in your house, of course I wasn't going to let you starve. We're friends. I can't tell what you're thinking if you're not even thinking it. I thought-- " He trails off.

"But," says James helplessly, "I love you."

Paul scrubs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. Fuck. Fuck everything. His chest hurts.

"Okay," he says eventually. "Nealer?"

"Yeah?" says Nealer quietly.

"Drink a fuckload of water and go to bed. I'll call you in the morning."

"But-- "

"Please," says Paul. "I promise, okay? I can't do this right now."

"Fine," says Nealer sullenly. "I still think you're an asshole."

"Yeah, I got that," says Paul. "Goodnight, James."

"Night," says James, and sighs gustily before hanging up.

Paul stands in his kitchen for a very long time, phone forgotten in his hand.

 

Nealer ends up calling him before Paul gets around to it. It's not exactly early-- Paul's just drying off the last of the dishes from breakfast-- but it's early enough that he assumed Nealer would still be passed out cold in Nashville, sleeping his hangover into submission.

"Uh, hey," says Nealer when Paul answers. He sounds hesitant and a little stilted. "So about last night, that was kind of awkward, and-- and I'm, uh. I'm sorry."

"Did you mean it?" says Paul abruptly. He doesn't want to bullshit around with this.

"Well, I-- yeah," says James. Paul's chest does that thing where it kind of hurts again. "I mean, shit, I've been thinking about it a lot, because I just fucking miss you, and it's-- it's kind of embarrassing, actually. You know, how obvious I was."

"Not obvious enough," mutters Paul.

"Do you-- so what do you think?" says James quietly, carefully.

Paul breathes out, rubbing the back of his neck. "What do you even want, James?" he says after a moment. "I mean, shit, we live on opposite sides of the country now."

Because the thing is-- the thing is, he's been in love with James for a long fucking time. Everyone thinks he's a nice dude but he's not _that_ nice; he wouldn't make James breakfast every fucking morning and find his annoying habits so endearing and smile fondly at the dumb things he says if he wasn't. And then James left and Paul's house was too quiet and still, and the drive to the rink was too lonely, and Paul was just-- a bit lost. But it was okay, or it would be after the initial overwhelming lack of James' presence sucking the air from his lungs, because at least he could comfort himself with the fact that even if James had stayed it wouldn't have panned out the way Paul wanted, because James hooked up with girls in bars and wasn't into Paul like that. 

And so maybe the space would be good, and Paul could finally get over James, and they'd talk on the phone and he could make fun of James failing to be an adult without actually having to see his face, they could shoot the shit about hockey and girls, and everything would be okay. 

Except apparently James was into him like that, and that-- that was a hell of a missed fucking opportunity. Paul hadn't ever done anything because he just _didn't know_ , and he didn't want to freak James out or get hurt or lose a good thing unnecessarily. He hadn't ever thought there was more to it than James being a bit codependent but also a pretty great friend. And now-- well, shit, now it almost feels too late, like they missed their shot, because he doesn't know how to make this work over such a long distance. Sure, it's not technically that far by plane, but that doesn't mean much when neither of them have time between games and practice to just disappear for a couple of days, even if their schedules miraculously matched up enough to allow for it in the first place. Everything about their friendship so far has depended so much on proximity, and the last thing Paul wants to do is fuck this up and not be around to fix it, not have James in his life at all. He loves that moron, and friendly phonecalls and twice-a-season catch-ups are easier to maintain, and better in the end than a failed cross-country relationship.

"Fuck that," says James. Paul blinks. "Fuck it, Paulie, if you want it-- "

"Of course I want it, you moron," says Paul. "I just also don't want to fuck it up."

"You won't," says James immediately. "We have Skype, right? And we'll play each other a couple times, and maybe catch up on holidays, and summer will come before we know it, and when you retire you can totally retire to Nashville. It'll be fine. It'll be _awesome_."

Paul laughs. "Yeah?" he says. "Sounds easy enough."

"It is," says James. "Paulie, I-- fuck, I won't fuck this up, you know?"

"Sometimes it just gets fucked up, and it's no one's fault," says Paulie.

"Not gonna happen," says James. "I'm way too stubborn, and you're way too responsible." He pauses, breathing out, and adds quietly, "Paulie, please. I can't-- I'm beating myself up so bad over here. It sucks I had to leave before I figured it out, but I don't wanna miss out anymore."

"Yeah," says Paul quietly. He shakes his head. It's stupid, maybe, definitely stupid, but he's wanted Nealer too long and too much to say no. He just-- he can't. "Yeah, okay, Nealer."

"Yeah?" says Nealer. "Shit, okay. Hey, Paulie?"

"What?" says Paul.

"You wanna go out with me?" says Nealer. Paul can hear the grin in his voice.

"Sure," says Paul, chuckling. "Save the date, yeah?"

"Fuck that," says James again. "Skype date. Have breakfast with me tomorrow?"

Paul smiles so fucking fondly then, he's kind of glad Nealer can't see him. "Yeah, okay," he says.

"Awesome," says Nealer. "I'll call you tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," echoes Paul.

"Good," says James. "And hey, I-- I love you, yeah?"

"Yeah," says Paul softly. "You too, James."

 

The first thing Paul sees when he answers James' Skype call is not his face, but a huge pile of what he thinks is scrambled eggs.

"Look!" comes Nealer's voice. "I made eggs, and I think they might actually be edible."

Paul grins and rolls his eyes. "Haven't taste tested yet?" he says.

"Nah." The eggs disappear and the screen tilts up to James' smiling face. "Waiting for your go ahead." He lifts the plate up under his chin. "What do you think?"

Paul squints at the screen. "They look okay to me," he says. "Did you actually pay attention all those times you came over to mooch off me? I might be impressed, Nealer."

"That's the idea," says James, winking at him.

Paul snorts. "You're a moron," he says fondly.

"Uh huh," says James with his mouth full. He swallows, tilts his head, and says, "Not as good as yours, but not bad. What are you having?"

"Omelette," says Paul, lifting his plate to show Nealer.

James makes a face. "Damn it," he says. "I _tried_ and you still outdid me."

"In my defence, that's not hard to do," says Paul, smirking.

"Hey," says James. "Be nice, this is a date. Also, I didn't burn my place down."

"True," says Paul. "Sorry. You look good?"

James laughs. "Tell me something I don't know," he says.

"Your modesty is also really attractive," says Paul dryly.

"You love it," says Nealer. "I got up early to do my hair for you, asshole."

"You do your hair for anyone," says Paulie. "You do your hair for _practice_."

"I take pride in my appearance," says James, sniffing.

"Maybe too much," says Paul, smirking again.

"Oh, fuck you," says Nealer. "You're the one who said I look good."

"You do," says Paul, grinning.

James glares into the webcam. "You're an asshole," he says.

"I know," says Paul. "You told me the other night. A lot."

Nealer rolls his eyes. "I said I was sorry," he says.

"Yeah, I know," says Paul. He'd also said _I love you._

Nealer maybe realises what he's thinking then, because his face goes soft and he says, "Uh, you look-- you look really good, too."

Paul blinks and looks down at himself. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and sweats, and his hair is definitely sleep rumpled. He maybe should've dressed up nicer, since this is technically a date, but it's also Nealer, and he'd wanted it to feel something like the breakfasts they used to share in Paul's kitchen. Easy and comfortable and just _them_. It's working, he thinks.

"Fuck, wish I could touch you right now," adds Nealer, and Paul feels himself flush.

"Yeah," he says a little hoarsely.

 

It's surprisingly easy, dating Nealer via Skype and text and phonecalls. Paul's not entirely sure what he was expecting-- more friction, maybe, one or both of them getting frustrated by the distance, or James getting too caught up in his new life in Nashville, maybe getting over Paul being so far away or just slowly getting awkward, drifting apart. Something to do, one way or another, with the lack of any sort of physical presence in each other's lives. The first four weeks are just-- just really smooth though, no problems at all. Yeah, James brings up the fact that they can't touch a lot, but it's always with the implication that they'll get there, that he's looking forward to it rather than being put off by the stretch of time in between. He texts Paul a lot when he's on the road, and it's nice, knowing that Paul's still on his mind even as he's making an effort to fit in with his new teammates and his new city. That he's happy, and it's because of both those things, the hockey and Paul too. He'd maybe assumed it had to be one or the other, and he's pleasantly surprised that it's not, and also kind of proud of Nealer. It takes a certain level of maturity to be okay with all this, to make it work, and he'd been worried, partly because he has a natural tendency for it, partly because it's _Nealer_ , but it's-- it's good. Paul doesn't need much, he's not fussy or complicated, and he likes their new morning routine, their nighttime phonecalls, watching a game or some new TV show Nealer's into with his cell pressed to his ear, the texts in between. 

He likes having something to look forward to, too, the games against Nashville, and Thanksgiving is coming up pretty soon. The anticipation of finally getting his hands on Nealer. 

It makes him feel young and giddy and stupid, and it's not exactly awful.

It's not the same as having Nealer _there_ , but it's still pretty good.

 

Of course, he's also a guy who's been in love with Nealer for a pretty long time now, and it doesn't stop being good, he doesn't appreciate what they're doing any less, but the frustration of not being able to touch Nealer definitely builds as the weeks pass.

It's separate from Nealer, a more abstract thing aimed at distance and circumstance, which is probably why it's still easy for Paul to compartmentalise, for things to be great with Nealer but maybe a little less great with the situation as-- as a concept, or something.

Paul's glad he has that ability. It keeps him from taking it out on Nealer, from making things shitty before they even get to be in each other's space, and he's not sure, but he thinks maybe it helps Nealer too, shows him how to direct his own frustration when it comes up.

It also helps to remember that it's just the way things go, in this kind of arrangement.

Things are really great, but Paul still misses James, and that's normal, that's allowed.

Sometimes it's little things, like going to sleep after saying goodnight to James and not having him there to tug close, waking up to another day of an empty bed and kitchen and house.

Sitting on the couch and not having Nealer's feet shoved obnoxiously into his lap, or thinking absently that it'd be nice to have his solid warm weight settled against Paul's chest.

Other times it's just-- he just _wants_ , and it hits him occasionally, how they're dating now, how if Nealer was here they'd be having sex, probably a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like he might crawl out of his skin if he doesn't get to touch Nealer right fucking _now_ , and then he has to jerk himself off rough and painful to take the edge off, to settle the itch under his skin.

It doesn't help that James starts trying to convince him to have Skype sex, just over a month in.

Paul laughs it off at first, because that's-- it's probably something James would be more into, really, and okay, Paul would be into watching James get himself off, but he's not exactly jumping to jerk it in front of a webcam. Maybe he's getting old, but the thought of it is more awkward than hot, and even if the imagined sound of James' hoarse, breathy encouragement through the speakers is kind of nice, it'd feel weird without James actually there.

Besides, they haven't even made out yet, and call him old-fashioned, but Paul wants to be able to remember their first time as one where they're actually physically touching.

You know, where they're in the same fucking state, for starters.

Nealer argues that it'd still count as a first time, and pouts a lot, and Paul eventually compromises and says, "I refuse to see you come for the first time over _Skype_ , Nealer, but if you can wait til we see each other in person, I'll consider it after that."

"Fine," says James. "Fucking killjoy, I'll just go jerk off right after you hang up."

"You do that," says Paul dryly, but he's also flushed all the way under the collar of his shirt.

Goddamn Nealer.

 

Paul should've known, really, that Nealer wouldn't let it drop so easily after that, because he's a smug little shit who only needs the slightest hint of encouragement, and he also has way too much-- not entirely unwarranted, Paul will give him that-- faith in his own good looks.

The next time they Skype Nealer answers with this stupid annoying smug grin and no shirt.

"Still not having Skype sex," says Paul immediately.

He can't help the way his eyes drop to track the cut planes of Nealer's chest though, the trail of hair disappearing under his sweatpants and the jutting hips Paul kind of wants to bite.

Nealer's shoulders look really good too, smooth and broad and soft. Paul wants to get his mouth there, see if the skin is as warm as it looks, suck up marks that will make Nealer moan.

He's seen him shirtless a thousand times, but it's different now they're dating, now he knows he's allowed to touch, if only he fucking could, if only Nealer weren't in fucking Nashville.

Nealer stretches languidly, sweatpants dropping so, so low on his hips. 

"Sure, whatever," he says.

Paul would probably want to punch him, if he didn't want to have sex with him so bad.

 

He doesn't drop it, Skypes with Paul shirtless more often than not, texts him at totally inappropriate times with things like, _jerked off thinkin about you this morning_ or _guess what got two fingers in my ass imagining getting ready for you to fuck me bet youd be great at it paulie hold be down n give it to me yeah_ , followed by _shiiiit just came all over myself._

He never brings it up when they're actually talking, just sits there half-naked and grinning, which Paul sort of appreciates because it means Nealer heard what he said and is sticking to it in this weird, roundabout way he does when he's not totally on board with something, but respects it enough not to push it to your face. On the other hand, dropping his phone in the locker room when Nealer texts _i want you to put bruises all over me_ followed immediately by _then mb ill suck your cock show u how much i like it_ , gritting out, "Fuck," as he flushes hard and then makes a mad scramble for the phone before Flower or any of the other assholes on his team can get to it, is really something Paul feels he's too old and too dignified to be doing.

Goddamn Nealer. Paul hates him a lot. Only, sadly, not really at all.

 

By the time their first game against Nashville comes up in late October, Paul's pretty much had it with the whole not being able to touch, living in different states, fucking bullshit trade.

He misses Nealer, he wants to fucking _touch_ him, just wants to be in the same goddamn room.

It doesn't help that Nealer's texts have been getting increasingly filthy. Paul knows it's just his way of channeling the same things Paul's frustrated about, and he'd much rather Nealer do that than get all pissy or go out and find someone else, but it's still killing him a little bit.

He's at the hotel in Nashville long enough to check in and dump his stuff, and then heads straight back out to spend the night at Nealer's before the game tomorrow. He feels kind of bad making the team front for a room he's not going to use, but well, it's only one night, no one has to know.

Except of course he runs into Geno in the corridor.

Geno blinks and then says, sticking his tongue into the corner of his mouth like he does when he's being a shit, "Where you go, Paulie? Bedtime soon, game tomorrow. Need big rest."

"Uh," says Paul. "I'm catching up with James."

Geno makes a pretty spectacular sad face. "What!" he says. "You see Lazy, not invite me?"

"Um," says Paul. His stupid Minnesotan manners battle with the overwhelming need to have sex with James as soon as humanly possible. "You can-- if you want-- "

Geno cuts him off with a laugh. "I see tomorrow," he says. "Go, be weird with Lazy."

"Like you can talk," says Paul, but he grins back at Geno.

"Rude," says Geno cheerfully as he moves off down the corridor.

 

Nealer looks pretty devastating when he answers the door. He's wearing a worn-soft grey Minnesota t-shirt, which a) Paul didn't even realise he'd been missing, and b) he doesn't even care, because apparently Nealer in his clothes really does it for him.

His sweats are riding dangerously low on his hips and his hair is artfully mussed, and his smile is just so fucking _happy_. Paul's hands clench involuntarily at his sides.

"Hey," says Nealer softly. 

"Hey," says Paul. He takes another second to just look his fill, and then steps forward to cup a hand over the side of Nealer's neck, thumb pressing against his jaw and fingertips grazing the short hairs at the top of his spine. Nealer makes a soft, wanting noise, and Paul kisses him.

Nealer opens his mouth immediately, plush and warm, and Paul licks inside slowly, nudging his free hand under the hem of Nealer's t-shirt to graze his bare hip. Nealer makes another noise, a little more desperate, fisting his hands in the front of Paul's jacket and trying to tug him inside.

"Fuck," he gasps, stumbling over the threshold and breaking away. 

Paul kicks the door closed and looks at Nealer, his wet lips and flushed cheeks, and fuck, he is just _so done_. He grabs Nealer by the shoulders and presses him hard against the nearest wall.

"Oh yeah?" says Nealer, licking his lips. His eyes drop to Paul's mouth, and he grins, pleased.

The little shit. Paul kisses him stupid, kisses him bruised and gasping, using all his weight to hold Nealer there against the wall, running his hands everywhere he can reach: the sides of Nealer's neck, tracing his collarbones, dragging down his sides to get under the hem of his shirt, stroking his hipbones, fingertips nudging under the waistband of his sweats.

When he breaks away to kiss Nealer's jaw Nealer groans, shifting against Paul, trying to hitch forward with his hips. "Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, Paulie, c'mon, _please_."

Paul lifts his head to look at him, running a thumb over his kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" he says.

"Did what on purpose?" says Nealer stupidly. His eyes are very dark, blown.

Paul squeezes his hip extra hard and says, "All that-- that shit about Skype sex and answering the calls half naked, the fucking _texts_ , you wanted me to-- "

"Oh," says Nealer breathlessly. He smirks, a little smug. "Maybe."

"Fuck," says Paul. "Nealer, you've been driving me _crazy_ \-- "

"I also just really wanted to see you come," says Nealer on a breath.

Paul stares at him for a moment, caught somewhere between annoyed and helplessly fond, and in the end he just presses Nealer back into the wall to kiss him some more and then manhandles him to the bedroom, tripping over clothes they shed all the way.

He fingers Nealer open til he's writhing and begging, gasping and flushed and sweaty and so, so gorgeous, a complete mess on Paul's fingers. When he's ready he fucks him hard, Nealer's fingers clawing alternately in the sheets and on Paul's shoulders, leaving scratch marks down his back. When Nealer comes he arches his neck and groans Paul's name, clenching hard around Paul's dick, rough knees pressing into Paul's sides. He's shaking with it, digging his fingers in hard just above Paul's ass, murmuring, "Fuck yeah, come on, come on, Paulie, do it, fucking _come_." Paul does, biting down on Nealer's shoulder. It's the best sex he's ever had.

Afterwards, still breathing hard and covered in his own come, Nealer pats Paul's chest and says, "Not bad, for a middle-aged Minnesotan." He grins lazily.

Paul rolls his head to give him a _look._

It just makes James laugh and lean in, kissing Paul soft and sweet. "Worth it," he mumbles, and doesn't elaborate, but Paul knows what he means, and yeah. It was. It is.


End file.
